Vanguard of Ares
by Home By Another Way
Summary: He gets the call soon after the Mole incident with Fushimi. "Olympus is under attack. We need you here – can you come? Ares needs his Vanguard." The Red Clan is said to have bonds thicker than blood, but these particular bonds are strengthened with golden ichor, so he says dutifully, "Of course I'll come, Clarisse."
1. Life and Times of the Vanguard

**Right, so, I've been feeling really out of sorts the past couple of days, and so I decided to start working on this little plot bunny to relieve some of my frustration. It kind of grew and grew, and I'm really quite pleased with it, so I decided to post it and see what ya'll thought. I think there will be three or four parts to this, so please bear with me and I'll update whenever I can.**

**WARNING: Characters might be slightly OOC because I have not read a PJO book in two years, and my copies are currently 4,000 miles away. Also, very, _very_ light hints of SaruMi. Seriously, it's only there if you squint.**

**Whelp, I hope you enjoy this!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the cover image. I also do not own PJO or K Project. If I did, there would be some serious changes to certain pairings. :)**

**Final note: This work was inspired by "Crow at War" by ShikiKaze09. **

**Vanguard of Ares**

**Summary:** He gets the call soon after the Mole incident with Fushimi. "Olympus is under attack. We need you here – can you come? Ares needs his Vanguard." The Red Clan is said to have bonds thicker than blood, but these particular bonds are strengthened with golden ichor, so he says dutifully, "Of course I'll come, Clarisse." (Alternatively, the Red and Blue Clansmen are about to learn something earth-shattering.)

**Part 1: Life and Times of the Vanguard**

They say the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. They say blood runs thicker than water. They say a lot of things, like _it's your duty to stay and defend the Camp_ and _you can't run from your destiny_.

And the most recycled:_ You won't survive in the real world for long – the monsters will find you: they always do._

Had Yata Misaki been anyone else, he might have let everything _they_ said rule his life and make his decisions for him: if he were weaker, less stubborn, he would have done as they said and stayed within the safety of the Camp boundaries, never venturing out except for school or – if he was _really_ lucky – a quick trip to see his father's throne on one of the Solstices.

But because his blood was already so strong and drew monsters to him like a beacon – despite the fact he wasn't a child of the Big Three – he was forbidden from leaving the Camp with very few exceptions. School wasn't a good enough reason to be given permission to venture out into the real world, and he had never been granted a Quest, so he remained trapped in the one place on Earth that was supposed to be his refuge, but quickly became more and more like a _prison_ with fancy trappings.

_Be grateful_, they said, _you're lucky you were able to survive long enough to reach this haven – a lot of others aren't so fortunate._

For a while, he let them convince him to stay. It wasn't _that_ bad after all – in fact it was kind of awesome, because he had finally found a place where he _belonged_. His father claimed him seconds after he stumbled – exhausted and bleeding but still _fighting_ – across the Camp boundaries for the first time, passing under the tall pine tree that was actually his cousin several times removed.

Apparently that was rare, to be snatched up so fast by his godly parent – but Yata hadn't cared about the blood red boar and spear that floated over his head because all he had wanted at the time was to _fall asleep and never wake up_.

He just wanted to forget everything for a while and act like the terrified twelve-year-old he was: he wanted to _forget_ about the monsters that had clawed at him and _taken his mother_, wanted to forget that he'd probably never hear his native tongue again for a long time, wanted to forget about how the other campers – his relatives somehow, apparently – whispered in awe about how he had managed to survive and find his way to the Camp without a satyr to guide him.

And for a while he _was_ able to forget about the horrors he had seen. For a while he was able to focus on learning to fight with his new brothers and sisters; for a while he was able to enjoy the new friendships he built; the games of Capture the Flag and s'mores by the magic campfire that changed colors constantly and was an endless fascination to him because he'd always been a little bit of a pyromaniac (and that was partially the reason why he'd been able to take out that hag in Chicago).

He even started to make a name for himself: his eagerness and skill and tendency to always lead the charge in a mock-battle earned him the name, "Vanguard of Ares," a responsibility he took _very_ seriously.

But eventually his year or two of bliss began to turn sour, and he started to feel restless.

It was just little things at first: the fact that his siblings couldn't properly say his name began to grate on him, and the fact that nobody was able to properly challenge him in the arena with a staff or spear anymore began to make him feel edgy.

He started staring out across Long Island Sound more and more often, feeling the tension wind tighter and tighter in his chest. His already quick temper became more explosive, and it eventually got to the point where Chiron had to intervene so he didn't start a blood feud with the Aphrodite Cabin, who had been tittering away again that his love life was going to be absolutely _horrendous_.

(He didn't know why that had been the last straw, but somehow it had been the last grain of rice to tip the scale and he had _snapped_.)

As was to be expected, Chiron dragged him to the Big House for an audience with the Camp Director, Mr. D.

Fidgeting in front of them, Yata dutifully did his best to explain his frustrations, and as he was talking he suddenly had a flash of inspiration about how to possibly resolve them.

"Can I leave the Camp for a while?" he asked, "Just for a day. Let me go on grocery runs with Argus or something."

The two governing bodies of Camp-Half Blood shared a quick glance that he couldn't quite decipher, before Dionysus shut him down with a blunt, "No."

Something in him snarled at that, and his blood started to boil.

"Why not?" he demanded angrily. "I haven't set foot outside the Camp in almost two years, except for that one trip to Olympus at the last Winter Solstice!"

Chiron attempted to pacify him by saying gently, "Your blood is too strong. It's just not safe, Misaki."

"_Don't_ call me that," he snapped back, because the only person in the world he allowed to call him by his embarrassingly-feminine first name was his mother, and she was _gone_.

"Watch your mouth, boy," Dionysus had sneered at him. "The answer is final. You're forbidden from leaving the Camp."

"It's for your own good, Yata," Chiron tried to reassure him, but the son of Ares had already been out the door before he could do something he would truly regret later.

The next few weeks he had been nigh-unapproachable: snapping at everyone and spoiling for a fight. The only one brave enough to oblige him had been his younger half-sister Clarisse, who had just arrived at the Camp and had quickly taken to considering him a mentor and role model, despite the fact he was only three years older than her.

Sparring with her had helped him to blow off some steam, and eventually the sparring had turned into impromptu training, and by the end of it he had felt calm enough he thought he could restrain himself from biting someone's head off.

"Why don't you try talking to Dad?" Clarisse suggested, still bright-eyed and tough: despite her age and what she had been through. She was another unusual one: their father had purportedly watched over her on her journey to Camp, something that had had everyone aflutter for a while. "You're his Vanguard, right? I'm sure he'll listen."

Yata had been doubtful, but eventually figured he had nothing to lose by trying. And so, every night from then on he had sacrificed some of his food to the fire at dinner, asking his father for some kind of advice, for any guidance at all.

For two months, his prayers went unanswered, and things only got worse.

The peculiar _restlessness_ continued to buzz under his skin like a hive of angry bees, and his temper became shorter and shorter even as his silent, wistful vigils over Long Island Sound became longer and longer.

Eventually he decided _to Hades with it all_. He packed up his few meager possessions, took the measly allowance he had been able to earn over the past two years helping in the strawberry fields, grabbed his standard-issue Celestial bronze knife (not his first choice for a weapon, but it would have to do), and marched up the hill toward Thalia's Tree.

People had caught wind of what he was doing by then, of course, and so he found himself being trailed to the Camp border by a crowd of mildly-curious campers.

Chiron and Mr. D. were waiting for him at the top of the hill, _of course_, and he stopped a good five feet away from them, absently adjusting the straps of his pack to fit more snugly over his shoulders.

"What do you think you're doing, Yata?" Chiron was the first to break the silence.

"I'm leaving," Yata replied bluntly, fixing the two immortals before him with a look free of the fear he probably should have been feeling from daring to challenge them both head-on.

"I'm afraid we can't let you do that," Chiron began, shuffling his hooves slightly.

"Why not?" Yata fired back, feeling _exhausted_ and exhilarated at the same time, like he was standing on the cusp of something _amazing_. "It's my choice."

They said a lot of things to try and get him to stay, tried to _order_ him to give up and give in, in the end.

But he was more of his father's son than he had perhaps been given credit for, because he brushed them all off with reckless abandon, ignoring the fact he was _this close_ to pissing off an immortal god who could turn him into a can of Diet Coke if the urge struck him.

He almost thought Chiron was going to attempt to restrain him by force at one point, and he had tensed in anticipation of the fight – when suddenly there was a rumbling of thunder in the distance and a muscular man in biker's leather with fire for eyes was standing in their midst.

(Yata didn't have to feel the almost _overpowering_ waves of _ragebloodlustneedtofight_ rolling off the newcomer to realize instinctively that this was his father – Ares, the god of war – who had for some reason decided to grace the gathering of demigods and two immortals with his presence.)

"Brother," Dionysus suddenly looked terribly bored with the whole affair, "To what do we owe this dubious honor?"

Pointedly ignoring the question, Ares barely spared his half-sibling a glance before turning the full force of his literally burning gaze on the lanky teen standing tall (even at just over five feet of height) in front of him. Yata glared right back, his hazel eyes blazing with defiance.

After a moment of dead silence (during which Yata felt distinctly like he was being _judged_, analyzed for something he couldn't quite put his finger on), the god of war finally deigned to speak.

"Let the boy go," he rumbled: his voice gruff and strong, the tone of command adding steel to his words.

"But, Lord Ares –" Chiron tried to protest, only to have the god of war cut him off.

"You heard me, centaur," Ares fixed his impossibly heavy stare on his son once again, considering the small body that was obviously tensed and ready to fight. The god of war smiled suddenly, all sharp white teeth, "I like your guts, kid. You truly are my son."

The words shocked the gathered campers, but Yata stood his ground and waited, certain there was something else his father had come here to say.

He discovered his hunch was right when the god of war reached into one of the pockets of his leather jacket and tossed something small and shiny at him.

Yata snatched it out of the air on instinct, and looked down briefly to examine the gift.

It was nothing special: just a small silver pendant in the shape of a flame. Yata's thumb accidentally pricked on the sharp point of the flame, and he hissed in surprise when his blood welled out of the puncture wound. Then he gasped along with the gathered onlookers when the moment his blood touched the pendant it lengthened into a spear tipped in glowing Celestial bronze.

Speechless, he glanced up at his father, whose face was carefully neutral.

"You've got a tough road ahead of you, kid," was all the god of war said, "This is the least I could do. Make me proud, Vanguard."

Then Ares vanished in a flash of fire, leaving Yata with a spear and the sudden awed attention of all of Camp Half-Blood.

Setting his mouth in a firm line, Yata carefully deactivated the spear and slipped the pendant into his pocket. Resetting his pack on his shoulders, he looked up expectantly at the two immortals that still stood between him and freedom.

"Foolish brat," Dionysus sneered at him, but nonetheless got out of the way. With a sigh, Chiron reluctantly moved aside as well, and suddenly Yata had a clear path ahead of him.

Pointedly ignoring the mumblings of his relatives behind him, Yata started forward with his head held high. The _restlessness_ that had been plaguing him for months was almost singing in his blood now, making his heart pound with the certainty that _this was the moment he'd been waiting for_.

"Yata?" the young, lost-sounding voice was enough to give him pause, and he glanced back to see Clarisse looking at him uncertainly, her expression filled with uncharacteristic hesitation.

He deviated from his path and went to stand in front of her – settling a hand on her shoulder because she was already almost as tall as him (somehow he was the runt of Ares' litter, a fact that people had been quick to learn did not make him any easier to take down in a fight), and looked her in the eyes, "I'll be back, Clarisse. Right now I just need to leave for a while. If you need me, I promise I'll return."

"Okay," she whispered, and he could tell she was stubbornly holding tears back, so he clapped her on the shoulder and gave her a small smile, "Keep working on your sword techniques. Maybe next time we meet you'll be able to beat me in a fight."

He could tell from the glint in her eyes that it was a promise, and then he turned away and walked under the shade of Thalia's Tree.

"Good luck, Yata," Chiron sounded so _old_ for a moment, but his voice was sincere, "We are always here for you if you need us."

Yata nodded at him but didn't stop his steady trek to the edge of the Camp border. Without hesitating, he crossed that invisible barrier and for the first time in two years breathed in the air of the mortal world.

He didn't look back as he headed down the hill, and started down the dirt road to New York City on foot.

Yata Misaki, the Vanguard of Ares, was fourteen years old when he left behind the only safe haven for his kind in the entire world, and went off to face the unknown with only a magical spear, his father's blessing, eighty-five dollars cash, and the clothes on his back.

They said he wouldn't last a week.

They were wrong.

_**-one year later-**_

It took Yata Misaki fifteen months to make his way to Japan. He lived on the streets and worked odd jobs to survive, finally managing to save up enough money for a one-way ticket to his homeland.

It was not an easy life: monsters attacked at least once a week, drawn by the siren call of his blood. But he hadn't wasted his years in Camp Half-Blood, and although there were a few close calls, he managed to stay relatively intact.

He did not keep in close contact with the Camp. The only IMs he answered were from Clarisse, and those were exceedingly rare. He did his best to ignore the gods' existence, and they did him the courtesy of not going out to their way to cause trouble for him.

When he finally stepped off of the airplane in Tokyo International Airport and was hit with an audial wave of his native language, Yata felt some of the _restlessness_ that still plagued him dissipate a little, and a smile stretched across his face.

Something settled in his chest, and Yata reveled in the first flicker of _peace_ that he had felt in a long, long time.

This far East, the monsters that plagued his brethren were unlikely to follow him, drawn as they were to the power of Olympus that at the moment was situated firmly in the West, so he wasn't too worried about that kind of trouble finding him. (He wasn't an idiot, though, despite what some of his naysayers back at Camp thought, and he had read up on Japanese creatures just to be prepared. Better safe than sorry, as he had quickly learned.)

Allowing the cadence of his native tongue to wash over him, Yata smiled as he lifted his head, slung his ratty pack over his shoulder, and headed out into the metropolis that almost put the Big Apple to shame.

(The gods were far from here, he thought. It didn't matter what _they_ said, anymore.)

_**-two and a half years later-**_

To this day, Yata wasn't sure how he'd ended up in Shizume City. Somehow, in between wandering the country and following the next odd job, he had found himself standing on the outskirts of a magnificent, sprawling metropolis that seemed to flicker in and out of existence. (He realized almost right away that this place was, for whatever reason, _teeming_ with Mist, and that the Rainbow goddess obviously had a hand in keeping it hidden from most mortal eyes.)

Curious despite himself, Yata wandered over the boundary and unknowingly stepped into a different world entirely, one that consisted not of gods, but of Kings and Clans.

He quickly became absorbed in the intricacies of the city, and for the first time in almost three years, decided to put down roots for a while.

It was completely by chance that he met Fushimi Saruhiko one day while searching for work, and he should have known from the first glimpse of those dark blue, knowing eyes that it would be best to escape while he could.

But it had been too long since Yata had had a true friend, and Saruhiko quickly became the best he ever had.

Of course, the Fates obviously weren't finished having fun at Yata's expense, because one day Saru pulled him aside and asked, "Misaki, why are you glowing?"

(Turns out Fushimi was a clear-sighted mortal, the first Yata had ever met. He should have figured out some way to lie, he supposed, but looking at his best friend in the whole world, Yata found he could do nothing else except tell the truth. And that was how Fushimi Saruhiko found out that Yata wasn't completely human after all.

But Saru didn't mind. In fact, he found it fascinating, and maybe that was when Yata's fate was sealed, because how could he leave behind the first person who had no _ichor_-strengthened ties to him, but had nevertheless accepted him for who he was?)

Unbeknownst to Yata, the wheels of Fate continued to turn in the West, and Kronos began to rise.

_**-three and a half years later-**_

For a while after that, things were good in Yata's world, and they only improved when he and Saru met Suoh Mikoto, the Red King, and decided to follow him.

They accepted his mark and Flame, and were immediately welcomed into the fold of the Red Clan. Yata even managed to earn the honored position of being the Red King's Vanguard, Yatagarasu, and it warmed his heart that he seemed to have finally found his place in the world.

It had taken Yata almost three years, but despite what _they_ had said, he had managed to survive on his own in the big, bad world, and with HOMRA he felt even more at home than he ever had at Camp Half-Blood.

(Yata should have remembered, of course, that he was a demigod, and that demigods' luck _sucked_, and would inevitably run out.)

He was almost able to completely forget the life he had left behind, but then Chiron sent him an Iris Message and told him Clarisse had embarked on a Quest to the Sea of Monsters, and was now missing.

An ugly sort of panic had shot through him when he heard the news, his Aura had flared uncontrollably, and he told Chiron he'd be there as soon as possible.

He had spent the next several hours visiting his various stashes throughout the city, quietly gathering what he would need to return to the world of gods and monsters he had been more than happy to leave behind.

Yata was still trying to figure out how to tell his Clan where he was going without raising suspicions when Chiron contacted him again and said that Clarisse had been found, and that she would be all right.

Nearly boneless with relief, he demanded to speak with her, to confirm with his own eyes and ears that his closest sibling was alive and well.

To his intense relief, she looked a little thin and rattled but no worse for wear. He congratulated her on her Quest, and she immediately began to tell him about what had been happening in the West recently.

Apparently, he had missed a lot in the last three years. Clarisse told him everything: a child of the Big Three had shown up (a "skinny dork" she'd called him), Luke Castellan had betrayed the gods to the Titans, Kronos was rising, the Golden Fleece had been returned to the Camp thanks to her Quest, and now there were _two_ children of the Big Three running around – Thalia had been revived from her Tree by accident.

It was a lot for him to process, and he felt distinctly numb when he finally bid her farewell and waved away the lingering Mist of the Iris Message. He wandered the city for a while, trying to gather his thoughts, and it wasn't until well after dark that he finally returned to the bar, where the rest of the Red Clan had been almost up-in-arms because he had been away for so long _without so much as a single word_.

He laughed awkwardly as Totsuka scolded him, and in the end he managed to escape to his room without drawing too much attention (though he could feel Saru's forever-too-perceptive eyes on him as he fled the bar area).

Perhaps it was because he was so preoccupied with the sudden influx of news from the West, of the thought that _war with the Titans could be on the horizon_, that he missed the signs of his best friend's slow withdrawal from the Red Clan.

Yata finally noticed something was wrong several months later, but by then it was far too late.

_**-four years later-**_

Yata Misaki had just turned eighteen when his whole world shattered for the second time in his life.

The first time had been when his mother was stolen from him by teeth and claws and _eyes that flashed in the dark and were desperate to eat him too_.

The second time was when he watched Fushimi Saruhiko drag his flame-tipped fingers over the pale skin of his chest, raking across the mark of HOMRA and rendering it almost unrecognizable.

The second time was when Saru turned his back on Misaki and everything he had come to believe in: the second time was much worse than the first because the second time broke Misaki's heart.

They say you don't know what you have until it's gone, and on this account Yata Misaki found he was forced to agree.

_**-five years later-**_

The Vanguard of the Red Clan had just limped home from an extremely emotionally-exhausting night of being trapped underground with his old-best-friend-turned-traitor – getting shot at and nearly blown up several times in the process – and was on his way to the comfort of his bed when Mist swirled up in front of him and he found himself facing Clarisse LaRue for the first time in almost two years.

"Clarisse," he greeted, doing his best to paste a smile across his face. "You've grown since the last time I saw you."

And she had – her face had less baby fat, her shoulders were broader, and from the looks of things she had no doubt passed him in height by now. He was so blinded by exhaustion that it took him a moment to notice the serious expression on her face and the fact she was wearing armor. As soon as it dawned on him, Yata forced himself to pay closer attention.

"Yata," she replied, and her brown eyes softened for a moment, before hardening again.

She got straight to the point, "Olympus is under attack. We need you here – can you come? Ares needs his Vanguard."

For a moment Yata just stared at her, the events of the last twenty-four hours laying heavily on his mind, the echo of, _"What was HOMRA to you?!"_ And the sneered reply, _"It's just a bunch of thugs throwing around their powers,"_ that _couldn't possibly be true._

Then he closed his eyes and gathered himself.

They say blood is thicker than water. They say the Red Clan's bonds are thicker than blood. But _these_ bonds that he had left behind years ago were strengthened with golden _ichor_, so he dutifully said, "Of course I'll come, Clarisse. I'll be in New York in as soon as possible."

His was slightly gratified to see some of the worry in her eyes melt away, and after her uncharacteristically soft, "Thank you, Yata," she swiped through the Mist and left him alone in his room that he had rented a couple blocks away from HOMRA headquarters.

For a few minutes, all he could bring himself to do was stare at his hands. Then, lethargically, he reached into his pocket and took out the flame-shaped pendant (oddly appropriate, he now realized) that he hadn't had to use for years. He studied the small silver trinket for a moment, and used the time to mentally prepare himself for what he was about to do.

Once he was almost certain he could stand without being in too much danger of swaying and keeling over, Yata pushed himself to his feet and began to prepare.

He packed a small backpack with clothes, the small bits of ambrosia he had managed to get ahold of over the years, grabbed some old American cash he still had left over, as well as enough yen to buy a one-way ticket to Washington D.C. (he wasn't stupid: if his father and the other gods were currently fighting what he thought that storm system moving across the States _actually_ was, there was no way he'd be able to catch a direct flight to New York City in the next couple of days).

Before he left his small apartment, he quickly typed a short note on his digital watch and sent it to all of the Red Clan members' tablets. He kept it vague on purpose: just letting them know he had business out of town for a while, and wasn't sure when he'd return (or _if_ he'd return, Yata thought grimly). Yata knew it was out of character of him, but he hoped that he'd be back before any of them got too suspicious.

His last order of business complete, the Vanguard of Ares and the Red Clan left to hail a cab and re-enter the world of gods and monsters he had left behind half a decade ago.

They say that no matter how far you run or how hard you try to hide, your past will inevitably catch up with you. On this matter, also, Yata was unfortunately inclined to agree.

**And, that's the end of Part 1, folks! If you would be so kind as to leave a note on your way out, I would really appreciate it! ****Otherwise, I wish you all a lovely early Valentine's Day! **

_**~Home By Another Way**_


	2. Rumors of the Vanguard

**Sziasztok, mindenkinek! So, here I am again. I apologize - it's been a couple months since my last update (not to mention _Xed_, and if any fans of that story are reading this, I promise I'm working hard on the next chapter, it's just struggling to come together the way I want it to).**

**WARNING: Violence and slight language ahead, but nothing too bad.**

**Hope y'all enjoy this different P.O.V. :)**

**Disclaimer: If you recognize it, I don't own it. Gosh darn it.**

**Vanguard of Ares**

**Part 2: Rumors of the Vanguard**

The first time Percy Jackson heard about the Vanguard of Ares was from Luke Castellan's lips, soon after the son of Hermes declared he was betraying the gods to the Titans. Percy hadn't really been paying much attention to Luke's monologue, occupied as he was by the scorpion crawling its way up his body.

The son of Poseidon would have missed the reference entirely, if not for the fact Luke's tone suddenly went from angry and self-righteous to quiet and thoughtful, and the change was drastic enough to drag Percy's eyes up from certain death to look at his nemesis once more.

". . . you know, you remind me of him a little," the son of Hermes was musing, giving Percy a thoughtful look.

Percy, frozen in place, trying desperately not to agitate the scorpion clinging onto his shirt, whispered almost inaudibly, "Who?"

Abruptly, the nostalgia fled from Luke's expression. He threw his head back and laughed scornfully, "Just another demigod called Yata. You have the same spirit – you'll never stop fighting for what you believe in," Luke's handsome features twisted again with hate as he muttered almost too quietly for Percy to hear, "At least _he_ managed to escape from this place."

Percy's throat was uncomfortably dry as he rasped out, "What do you mean?"

"Don't you worry, Percy," Luke brushed him off and returned to smiling at him, watching coldly as the scorpion inched closer and closer to the son of Poseidon's vulnerable neck. "There are other things you should probably focus on right now, wouldn't you say?"

What happened after that was a blur, but Percy Jackson did remember the sting of the scorpion's tail as it pierced his skin, the agony that flooded his veins as its poison set to work on him, the laugh Luke gave as he vanished into shadows, and the fleeting curiosity about a demigod called Yata, whom Percy had never heard of before.

Then the poison overwhelmed him and his world faded into darkness.

_**-first time-**_

When he woke up in the Infirmary and the full scope of Luke's betrayal was revealed by his account of the events that had transpired; he stopped Annabeth before she could leave.

Percy wasn't quite sure _why_ he grabbed the daughter of Athena's sleeve, but he thought it might have had something to do with _hating_ the expression of utter betrayal that she was wearing, and being desperate to get rid of it by any means necessary.

Bloodshot, angry gray eyes looked at him in askance, and Percy retracted his hand as though he'd been burned. In order to avoid an awkward silence, he cast around desperately for something to say, and – for once thanking the gods for the randomness that being ADHD blessed him with – blurted out the first thing that came to mind: "Who's Yata?"

To his intense relief, the anger vanished from those gray eyes, replaced instead by a flicker of surprise. Annabeth's brows furrowed, and she frowned as she replied, "He was just a demigod, Percy. He left the Camp a long time ago."

He couldn't quite keep his mouth from falling open in shock, "He _left_? Why?"

Annabeth bit her lip and shook her head, "I don't know."

Then her eyes narrowed suspiciously and she demanded, "Who did you hear that name from, anyway?"

His guilty silence was all the answer she needed, and to Percy's dismay the anger and sadness returned to her face, darkening her eyes and making her look much older than she was.

With a curt, "Make sure to rest up, Seaweed Brain," she stormed out of the room.

Percy stared helplessly after her, wondering if he should try to call her back. Deciding it wasn't worth the effort (and she probably didn't really want to talk to him right now, anyway), he tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling.

The son of Poseidon sighed.

_**-second time-**_

The second time Percy heard whispers about Yata was just before he left to find Grover in the Sea of Monsters.

Haunted by his dreams of Grover in a wedding dress (and more importantly, in _danger_), Percy had gone to the Big House to try to talk to Chiron about it. He'd just stepped over the threshold when he heard Chiron and Mr. D. conversing in low tones down the hall.

Curious despite himself (and didn't curiosity kill the demigod?), the son of Poseidon snuck down the hall as quietly as possible, pausing outside the closed door and pressing his ear to the wood, praying for all he was worth that the centaur wouldn't hear his heartbeat.

"—don't think you should be so concerned, Chiron," Mr. D. was saying, voice monotone and obviously uninterested in whatever topic the two co-leaders of Camp were discussing.

"Of course I'm concerned, Dionysus," Chiron sounded slightly irritated, which was very unusual for him. "We've lost contact with Clarisse. She should have checked in _days_ ago."

"You know how these Quests are," the god of wine drawled.

"Exactly," Chiron retorted, "Something is _wrong_, Dionysus. I can feel it."

Mr. D. heaved a put-upon sigh, and for a moment the two lapsed into silence.

When the centaur spoke again, he sounded strangely hesitant, "Do you think I should let Yata know Clarisse is missing?"

Percy's heart skipped a beat in surprise when he heard Yata's name, and the ensuing quiet was heavy before Dionysus replied, sounding supremely unconcerned, "Do what you want."

Blood pounding in his ears, the son of Poseidon slowly began backing away down the hall, not eager to try his luck and eavesdrop any longer. Heart in his throat, Percy didn't relax until he was halfway back to his cabin.

It was only then that he remembered why he had gone to the Big House in the first place. For a moment he considered going back to try again, but Tyson appeared and Percy found himself distracted with convincing his half-brother to stop terrifying the dryads.

Then, later that night, Chiron was banished from Camp, and Percy was forced to take matters into his own hands.

_**-third time-**_

About a week later, after a whirlwind of events (Luke was apparently now in command of a cruise ship, Percy had been turned into a _guinea pig_, Grover was saved, Clarisse had almost become a Cyclops' _bride_, Nobody had triumphed again in the end, the Golden Fleece had been recovered, and Percy's cousin – the _daughter of Zeus_ – had been _revived_), Percy found himself back in the Infirmary as Thalia Grace was carefully examined for any lingering effects that having spent several years as a _pine tree_ might have left her.

The guy from the Apollo Cabin had just given her a clean bill of health when Chiron came in and called out quietly to the daughter of Ares.

"Clarisse," he said, "Yata wants to speak with you."

Percy, who'd still been trying to wrap his head around the fact he had gained a _cousin_ (and a half-brother, now that he thought about it) in a matter of days, whipped his head around just in time to see surprise flicker across the beefy girl's face. He watched in shock as her eyes actually _softened_, and she stood up quickly to leave.

He was so surprised he couldn't find his voice until she left the room, but then he couldn't take it anymore and blurted out, "Who is Yata?"

"Her half-brother," Chiron replied absently, giving Thalia a quick examination himself just to be absolutely _sure_ that everything was in order, "Another child of Ares."

_Ares, huh?_ Percy thought, imagining some giant guy with rippling muscles for arms, beady brown eyes, coarse brown hair – a male version of Clarisse, really. His musing was interrupted, however, when Annabeth interjected from her place at Thalia's bedside.

"Don't ask Clarisse about him, Percy," she warned, "It's a sore subject."

Percy still wasn't quite satisfied, but then he thought about how Clarisse had just survived almost being married off to an old, monstrous Cyclops, and decided he could relent for the time being.

He was still curious, though.

_**-fourth time-**_

Three years passed, and eventually Percy forgot about the mysterious son of Ares. But then the Labyrinth was destroyed, Camp Half-Blood began to lay plans for how to fend off Kronos, and his name came up again.

Representatives from each of the Cabins had gathered around the War Table, and were discussing various ideas for defenses to install, tactics to implement, supplies to gather, and any other feasible ways to prepare for an attack on Olympus, when Chris Rodriguez suddenly brightened and turned to his girlfriend.

"Clarisse," he began, "We need all the help we can get, right? Why don't you call Yata and ask him to come back?"

Eager for something to distract themselves from the fact they'd been getting pretty much nowhere, the rest of the table quieted down to listen.

"Yata?" Silena Beauregard from Aphrodite asked, looking puzzled. Then her expression cleared as she placed the name, and sadness darkened her eyes. "I remember him. Mother said his love life was going to be _disastrous_."

(For a moment Percy couldn't help but feel kinship with this demigod he'd never met, even though he was a son of Ares, because the son of Poseidon _knew_ what it was like to have the goddess of love twisting everything to get her kicks.)

Perhaps that was why the burning curiosity that had been lying dormant within him for the past three years suddenly flared up and led him to open his mouth.

"Hold up," Percy interjected, because he could see he wasn't the only one unfamiliar with the name, "Can someone please tell me who Yata is? I've heard some rumors, but . . . ."

He trailed off, surprised when Clarisse replied immediately, "He's the Vanguard of Ares."

"Vanguard?" Percy blinked, confused.

"Yata is a son of Ares," Chiron said simply, "He left Camp with his father's blessing five years ago. It's frankly amazing he's been able to survive on his own for so long."

Percy digested this while Clarisse looked proud on her half-brother's behalf.

"Wait," Michael Yew of Apollo protested, "We're gonna trust a guy who hasn't been seen in five years? How do we know Kronos hasn't gotten to him?"

Clarisse whirled on him, teeth bared in a snarl of fury, "Don't you _dare_ talk bad about him! Yata would _never_ turn."

"Calm down, Clarisse," Chiron tried to soothe her, "It's a valid question. Not everyone knows Yata as well as you do."

But the daughter of Ares shook her head, refusing to back down.

"First it was the chariot and the stupid _rhymes_," she sneered, clenching a fist and slamming it down on the table, "and now _this_. I've had enough. _Ares Cabin_ has had _enough_."

"What are you saying, Clarisse?" Annabeth asked warily as the husky girl stood up, face crimson with fury.

"I'm saying Ares is done with being disrespected," Clarisse snarled. She drew her knife from her belt and threw it down, embedding the blade into the wood of the table, "His children – including his Vanguard – will not fight in this battle unless we are shown the respect we deserve. Good luck winning this war without us."

Tossing her head, the daughter of Ares stormed out of the Big House, leaving the rest of the gathered demigods staring after her in horror. Casting them an apologetic look, Chris stood up to leave as well.

"I'll go try and talk to her," he said. He left, and the remaining demigods found their eyes drawn to the knife embedded in the table, gazing at it with morbid fascination.

Somehow, Percy didn't think Clarisse would relent.

The Battle for Olympus would have to be fought without Ares.

(_Who must Yata have been_, Percy wondered, _if dissing him was enough for Clarisse to consider it the last straw?_)

_**-fifth time-**_

The next few days were a blur for Percy (Beckendorf was _dead_ and Silena was a _traitor_), and some time in between being tricked by Nico into Hades' realm and taking a dip in the River Styx he forgot again about the so-called Vanguard of Ares.

But then he arrived back on the streets of Manhattan and took down Hyperion with his new invulnerability; buying the demigods and their allies invaluable time to rest and treat their wounded for the night.

He and the other leaders (including Grover of the satyrs and dryads, and Thalia of the Hunters of Artemis) had commandeered one of the hotel suites and were using it as a headquarters for a quick meeting.

(Nobody mentioned how three Cabin leaders were missing, or how there were so many more shrouds waiting to be burned.)

Annabeth had just finished consulting Daedalus' shield, and they were just completing a rather grim assessment of what would happen tomorrow (the day Percy turned sixteen, the day Typhon would reach Olympus, the day of _prophecy_) when Clarisse held up a hand for quiet.

(Something about the daughter of Ares had changed within the past twenty-four hours, Percy thought. The obvious change was the red aura of power – Ares' blessing – that still flickered around her form every once in a while, but Percy thought the reason her eyes were more serious, the reason she looked _older_ and more world-weary had more to do with the fact she'd held her best friend's cooling corpse earlier in the day.)

Clarisse took a deep breath and was unusually serious when she said, "We need all the help we can get, right?"

Reluctantly, nursing injuries that all of them (except for the son of Poseidon) had sustained during the day of fighting, the gathered leaders nodded. Clarisse took this as her cue.

"Why don't we call the Vanguard of Ares?" she suggested, "Why don't we call Yata?"

There was silence for a moment as they all turned this idea over in their heads, and then Annabeth decided it by heaving a sigh and saying, "I don't see what we have to lose at this point."

Upon receiving the weary assent of the others, Clarisse stepped out to make an IM call.

Her eyes were brighter when she came back (lit with a light that just might have been _hope_), and her voice was crisp when she reported, "He said he's on his way."

(And if everyone left to tend to their duties after that with shoulders that were slightly more relaxed than when they gathered for the meeting, no one said anything about it.)

_**-sixth time-**_

The fighting in the streets began anew the next day, though this time there was more of a feeling of _todayisthedaythisends _and_ fightforallyouareworthbecausethereisnotomorrow_ shared by both demigods and monsters, making both sides ten times as ferocious and determined.

The demigods managed to hold their positions until around noon, but then the endless number of monsters that just _kept on coming_ began to overwhelm them, and their defenses began to buckle.

Slowly but surely, the children of the gods and their allies were pushed back, steadily losing ground to _teeth and claws _and_ creatures that were born in the darkest place on Earth_, beings who wanted nothing more than to _bathe in their _ichor_-imbued blood_.

The Ares and Aphrodite Cabins in particular were feeling the strain: the children of war struggling to make up for their fellow campers' weaker skills with a blade. They were hard-pressed to hold the two-block radius they'd managed to secure around the Empire State Building, but without reinforcements their future was looking bleak.

Gritting her teeth as she dragged the _drakon_'s corpse behind her, her father's blessing still sizzling in the air around her, renewed with the battle, Clarisse was just about to call an extremely reluctant retreat when a column of crimson flames erupted at the back of the crowd of monsters. In an instant, half of the legion of gods-damned creatures they'd been trying (and failing) to fend off were gone, burned away into nothing but dust that was already drifting away on the wind.

A ripple of shock ground the fighting to a momentary halt, as one by one monsters and demigods alike turned to stare at the enormous cloud of monster-dust that had abruptly billowed up overhead.

One of the monsters closest to the strange fire's epicenter roared and charged forward, slashing at some unknown assailant.

There was another lick of crimson flame, and the monster was reduced to dust.

(The rest of the monsters shifted uneasily, a deep primal feeling welling up in them and informing them they were caught between a rock and a hard place.)

Clarisse gaped along with the rest of her brothers and sisters, shocked by how their enemies had been reduced to half their numbers in a matter of seconds. Then a suspicion occurred to her, making her heart swell and her lips slowly spread in a genuine smile.

"What are you waiting for, maggots?" she screamed at her shell-shocked companions, causing them to startle and turn to her. With a bloodthirsty smile, a look of glee in her eye, and her father's blessing crackling in the air around her, she truly looked like a child of war.

"Let's end these freaks!" she hollered, raising her sword, "For Olympus!"

"_For Olympus!_" the demigods roared back, and charged into the melee once more, taking the still-confused monsters by surprise. In an instant, the remaining number of monsters had been decimated. Screaming in triumph, the demigods felt their blood begin to sing (they were hard-wired for war, after all), and moved forward as one great entity, reinvigorated because _those crimson flames had given them a fighting chance_.

Clarisse lead the charge, fighting her way through teeth and claws, cutting a clear path to the end of the street, where those crimson flames were making quick work of the few remaining monsters.

_Finally_, she thought with relief, slamming her fist into a scaly face with glee, not even pausing to watch the _dracanae_ crumble to dust, _the Vanguard of Ares has come home._

As though in reply to her thoughts, a voice rose from the epicenter of the chaos at the far end of the street. It was deeper than she remembered, but she recognized the owner without having to see their face.

"Bring it on, _bakemono_! _Omae wo korosu!_"

Clarisse allowed herself a small smile before ramming her sword through another _dracanae's_ chest.

Perhaps the day could be won after all.

**V . O . A .**

Percy Jackson and his group had been pushed back to the entrance of the Empire State Building, trying frantically to keep the army of monsters they were facing from storming the lobby.

The son of Poseidon was in the thick of the fighting, doing his best to hold the line a few feet from the front door. All around him, his friends were tiring and making mistakes, succumbing to poisonous claws or sharp fangs and having to be dragged away from the fighting – screaming in agony – by increasingly frantic dryads.

Percy was doing his best to stay focused and intercept the brunt of the assault. His shirt had been torn to shreds ages ago, his armor ripped free by a lucky swipe from a Laiystragonian giant.

Annabeth was standing to his right, gray eyes fierce and Celestial bronze blade flashing in the sunlight as she stabbed yet another _dracanae_ in the heart (and somehow she always unerringly made sure the small of his back – his _only_ weak point – was protected by her own body).

"To your left!" a child of Hephaestus screamed, and Percy automatically brought Riptide up to bear, metal clanging on metal as the blade stopped the attack of a _telekhine_'s short sword. Sending his own glare in reply to the monster's snarl, the son of Poseidon flicked his wrist (in a move that reminded him painfully of _LukeandKronos_ and the fact that _todaywashisdestiny_), and the diminutive creature's weapon went flying.

The _telekhine_ barely had time to shriek in displeasure before Annabeth was sliding her own blade home between its ribs.

As the monster disintegrated into the world's smelliest sand castle, the blonde-haired girl moved closer to the black-haired boy, causing tingles of that strange _awareness_ to creep up his spine.

"We're not going to be able to hold on much longer," her grim declaration was barely above a whisper, just loud enough for him to hear.

_I know_, Percy thought, but didn't have the heart (nor breath) to say it aloud. He panted, feeling his lips thin into a frown even as he fended off another attack from some kind of half-boar, half-dog. It was a moment before he had enough time to murmur back, voice hard with determination, "We have to hold on as long as we can."

"I know that, Seaweed Brian," her attempt at humor was brittle at best, but it was enough to cause his lips to twitch into the vaguest definition of a smile.

Another demigod further down the line fell, collapsing to the dirt with a terrifying, final _stillness_, and Percy's smile vanished. His throat, already hoarse from yelling commands and screaming war-cries, was ravaged once more as he opened his mouth to shout, to vent the burning tidal wave of _anger_ and _helplessness_ that was rising up inside of him –

Then crimson fire erupted from down the street and the dying screams of monsters of all shapes and sizes drowned him out entirely.

Freezing in shock, monsters and demigods alike whirled to gape in amazement as a giant mushroom cloud billowed up from where an entire contingent of enemy Cyclops had been standing (_What flame_, Percy wondered with a peculiar kind of hysteria creeping into his thoughts, _could possibly destroy _Cyclops_, which had been born to withstand Hephaestus' forge-fires?_)

Then the smoke cleared and Percy Jackson caught his first glimpse of the fabled Vanguard of Ares.

His first thought – ridiculous though it was – went something like: _How can he be a son of Ares when he's so _small_?_

Indeed, the Vanguard was much shorter than Percy had expected (the other demigod couldn't have been much taller than _him_, for crying out loud), and had a much slimmer build than any child of Ares Percy had ever seen (but he was built wiry like a dancer).

The Vanguard of Ares wore light armor over a long-sleeved white shirt and black shorts, and a dark beanie was pulled low, keeping his wild-looking chestnut hair in place. A spear was slung across his shoulders, and his face was twisted into an expression of such ferocity that any doubts the son of Poseidon had about his parentage immediately disappeared.

(But what really grabbed Percy's attention was the aura of something _red_ that sizzled around the other demigod, a clear warning to any and all not to get too close, unless they wanted to _burn._)

"Is that Ares' mark?" Grover's voice was slightly awed. From the corner of his eye, Percy saw Annabeth shake her head, "No, I don't think so – Ares doesn't bless his children with fire, so it must be something else."

The sons of Ares and Poseidon met eyes for an instant across the battlefield, fierce hazel boring into shocked sea green, and then a monster recovered their wits enough to charge at the new player on the field.

The Vanguard's eyes flickered away from Percy's and zeroed in on the new threat. Snarling, the young man flipped his spear from his shoulders and threw it hard enough to pin the slobbering monster to the ground; he followed through with his throw, moving with surprising quickness and agility, dashing over to the fallen creature even as the other monsters surrounding him regained their senses and closed in.

With one tug, he yanked his weapon from the corpse and stabbed two more servants of Kronos in the neck before raising the spear above his head and twirling it with surprising skill, unleashing a hail of now-familiar crimson flames upon the crowd of monsters surrounding him; the result was a chorus of blood-curdling wails and a circle forming around the Vanguard as creatures of all shapes and sizes scrambled back, desperate to escape the firestorm of death.

The Vanguard – _Yata, wasn't it?_ some hazy part of Percy's mind recalled – dropped into a ready position, spear in hand, daring the monsters to come at him again.

Then the earth shook and an army of the undead dragged themselves out of the ground, followed quickly by the son of Hades and the Lord of the Underworld himself, riding a chariot pulled by black horses made of hellfire and bone.

Within an instant, the street in front of the Empire State Building descended into chaos once more, and Percy lost sight of the Vanguard as the monsters redoubled their efforts to break into the lobby, seeing it as their only chance to escape from the double-pronged attack of immortal soldiers and flames that reduced them to dust.

Percy was swallowed up by the fighting as the demigods – filled with renewed hope – fought to save Olympus, until he had to retreat because his Fate beckoned (and he found he was glad he got to see the hallowed Vanguard of Ares once before he died, because let's face it: Percy knew his chances of surviving this were slim, invulnerability or no).

And so, Riptide (_the cursed blade_, the darkest part of his mind whispered despairingly) clutched tight in his hand, Percy Jackson left the defense of Olympus in the hands of Thalia, daughter of Zeus, and entered the elevator with Annabeth at his side, her beautiful gray eyes narrowed and dark with grim determination.

"Seaweed Brain," she said softly, before clearing her throat and trying again, "Percy . . . ."

It took everything he had to give her a reassuring look, but his voice was sincere when he said, "I know. Don't worry, Annabeth. We'll make it out of this."

She gave him a small smile, and he reached out (to what? touch her face? grab her hand?), but then the elevator doors slid open and they stepped out into a ravaged Olympus.

_It'll have to wait 'til later_, he thought, then gritted his teeth, _There _will_ be a later._

Moving as one, the two demigods set out for the throne room, trusting a child of Ares they'd never met and a god who was known for being an outcast to keep things under control down below so they could _finish this_, once and for all.

_**-seventh time-**_

Later, after Kronos had been defeated, Luke was dead, and Percy had turned down immortality in exchange for an oath from the gods, he went to check on the wounded half-bloods, and in doing so finally met the Vanguard of Ares face-to-face.

The strangely-built son of the war god (so different from his half-brothers-and-sisters), was crouching over a girl from Hermes Cabin, re-bandaging a gruesome wound to her shoulder with an ease that spoke of much practice.

Clarisse was sitting not far away from him, speaking softly to Chris Rodriguez, who was doing his best to comfort his half-sister, and looked up when Percy's shadow fell over the group.

The daughter of Ares didn't bristle immediately at his presence as she might once have several days ago (before she had slain a _drakon_ and held her best friend's hand as Silena gave herself over to Thanatos). Instead, she gave him a twitch of the lips that _might just_ be considered a smile, her eyes dark with pain but also victorious.

"Not bad, Prissy," she said, and he was just too tired to rise to the bait, so he replied, "Not bad yourself, Clarisse," and glanced over to see the Vanguard of Ares had finished dressing the girl's wound and was considering him with a small scowl.

Undeterred, Percy held out a hand.

"I'm Percy Jackson, son of Poseidon," he said, "And you're the Vanguard of Ares. I've heard a lot about you, but I've never actually heard your full name."

Hard hazel eyes bored into his own for a moment, before the Vanguard grunted and rose to his feet, shaking the proffered hand.

"Damn right I'm the Vanguard," the son of Ares responded in barely-accented English, his voice deeper than Percy had expected, "Misaki Yata. Pleased to meet you," the Vanguard suddenly glared at him, and growled, "But you better call me Yata, or I'll show you why no one was able to best me in the Arena."

"Deal," Percy declared, even as Clarisse interjected, "That was years ago, Yata. I've been practicing, and I'm sure I can wipe the floor with you."

The Vanguard – _Yata_, Percy reminded himself – dropped his hand and turned to glare indignantly at his younger half-sister, "I haven't just been sitting on my ass for the past five years, Clarisse."

Their friendly banter was interrupted by the girl from Hermes groaning in pain, and Yata immediately returned to her side, crouching down to poke at her ribs as gently as possible. His face was grim as he reported, "She's broken at least two of these. You'll have to call someone from Apollo – I've done all I can for her."

Percy was just about to turn and wave Will Solace over, when Clarisse gasped and hissed, "Yata, you're _bleeding_!"

Alarmed, Percy and Chris gave the Vanguard a quick once-over, and, sure enough – spotted a rivulet of blood sliding down Yata's leg.

"_Kuso_," Yata hissed, easing himself down and pulling up his pants-leg far enough that the other demigods could clearly see a once-white bandage stained crimson. With surprisingly deft hands, Yata removed the soiled bandage – growling as the gauze stuck to his skin with the blood as an adhesive – and tossed it aside.

Concerned, the other three demigods bent to examine the wound, and abruptly concluded from the size and shape of it that it couldn't possibly have been made by any blade or claw, which meant he had not sustained it in the Battle for Olympus.

"Yata," Clarisse demanded, her face pale, "is that a _gunshot wound_?!"

"It's just a graze," Yata deflected, reaching for some fresh gauze to staunch the bleeding.

The burly daughter of Ares' face flushed with anger (and no small amount of concern) as she snapped, "What _happened_?"

"Nothing," Yata replied, not looking up as he reapplied a bandage, pulling the white gauze tight and tying it off deftly.

Chris and Percy exchanged glances, and Clarisse opened her mouth – no doubt about to press for more information, but the Vanguard looked up at them with eyes that had seen and done too much, and said simply: "Leave it, Clarisse."

The son of Poseidon was shocked when the brown-haired girl bit her lip but nonetheless reluctantly backed down without a fight.

They were all silent for a moment as Yata returned his pants-leg to its usual position (but he didn't look like he wanted to risk trying to stand for a while). After a moment, Clarisse asked tentatively (and it was the first time Percy had ever heard her sounding even remotely hesitant), "Are you going to stay this time?"

Yata did not reply for a long while, and when he finally raised his head his expression was apologetic but firm.

"I can't," he sighed (and Clarisse's shoulders slumped, not that she would ever admit it), "I have other duties. But," he promised softly, "I will stay long enough to see the Camp settled."

Clarisse brightened visibly at that, and her lips quirked up into a challenging smirk, "Good. I'll have enough time to kick your ass in the Arena."

Yata snorted, "You can try, Clarisse. Who was the one who taught you to wield a sword?"

The two half-siblings continued bantering with each other, and the atmosphere around the group gradually lightened. Percy was content to watch, but he couldn't help but wonder –

Just who _was_ the Vanguard of Ares?

(The rumors had said that the Vanguard of Ares was fierce. They had not mentioned that he could wield flames, or what he had been up to the last five years.)

**So, the Second Titan War has come to an end. Yata has agreed to stay and help rebuild the Camp. But what about those he left behind? Will the Red Clan just let his disappearance go? I think we all know the answer is a resounding, "No way in HELL!"**

**Next time: we get a peek at what's been happening on the other side of the globe.**

**Customary question: Who is your favorite K character? I have to say I'm kind of divided between Mikoto and Munakata. Seriously, they're both kick-ass and have great character depth, not to mention one wields swords and the other fire with his bare hands . . . let's just say it's a tie. :)**

**Until next time!**

_**~Home By Another Way **_


	3. Searching for the Vanguard

**Hello! I'm so sorry it's been almost a year, please accept this 6k word chapter as an apology. As always, thank you so much for your support! I hope you enjoy this chapter - we finally get a glimpse at what's been happening in Shizume City during Yata's absence!**

**Disclaimer: As you have no doubt guessed, I don't own K project or PJO. I can't draw that well, and my writing is not yet at the best-selling novel level. Sigh.**

**Vanguard of Ares**

**Part 3: Searching for the Vanguard**

_**-day one-**_

Kusanagi Izumo, second-in-command of HOMRA, _knew_ his day was going to be migraine-inducing from the moment he woke up to a message from the Red Clan's Vanguard blinking on his phone screen:

_Hey, I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but I have some family things to take care of. I'll be out of town for a while. Should be back soon. Keep the Blues out of our territory!_

_-Yata_

_P.S. Sorry, Mikoto-san, but this was really sudden, so I didn't have time to ask for permission. _

It was disturbingly vague and rushed, which was completely unlike Yata.

_Oh, dear_, Kusanagi thought as he stared blearily down at the screen. _The Clan won't be happy about this. I need a drink. And a smoke._

Sure enough, Kusanagi had just opened the bar for the early morning rush and was wiping down his lovely mahogany counter when Kamamoto burst through the door, followed closely by Bandou and Chitose. Within the span of five minutes, every HOMRA member had flooded into the bar, taking up as much space as possible and muttering uneasily.

Totsuka and Anna appeared as well – the two having gone out earlier to enjoy the brisk morning chill and pick up lunch. Totsuka was carrying a plastic bag and cut through the crowd of restless Clansmen with ease. He reached the bar and gently set down the bag before giving Kusanagi a concerned look.

Kusanagi could only shrug in reply to the unasked question, and Totsuka frowned before turning to help Anna clamber up onto a stool.

Kamamoto finally broke the uneasy quiet, as Kusanagi had known he would.

"Kusanagi-san," the rotund man began, eyebrows furrowed over his dark sunglasses, "Where's Yata? What's with the weird message he left?"

Kusanagi sighed and absently reached for a shot glass to polish. The glass was already sparkling, but Kusanagi nonetheless scrubbed at it with a white cloth, his hands restless as he replied, "I don't know where Yata is, Kamamoto. I only know as much as the rest of you – Yata didn't leave any more information besides the note he sent to the Clan's network."

He knew immediately it had been the wrong thing to say, because the younger members of the Clan puffed up even more, incredulous indignation gathering like storm clouds on their brows.

"He didn't tell _anyone_ where he was going?" Kamamoto exclaimed. "But what if he's in trouble?"

"I'm sure Yata is fine," Totsuka smoothly intervened, his soothing voice washing over them and dissipating some of the tension. The Clansmen relaxed a little. "Wherever he is, he can take care of himself. Besides, he said he'd be back soon. All we can do is have faith in him and wait."

"I don't like it," Bandou grumbled. He would have said more, but a familiar, heavy tread sounded on the stairs leading up to the living area above the bar, and the entire Clan turned to see Suoh Mikoto yawning in the doorway.

The Red King moved with all the grace and carefully concealed strength of a particularly lazy panther. He nodded to them all as he made his way across the room to his usual couch. The Clan managed to wait until he dropped down on the leather and glanced at them all with his steady, molten gaze – then they burst out in a flurry of noise.

Kusanagi managed to calm them after a few moments, valiantly ignoring his exponentially increased longing for a cigarette. After HOMRA was miraculously quiet again, Totsuka asked what was on all their minds.

"King," he said, "Have you heard from Yata at all?"

"No," Mikoto replied, blinking once, long and slow.

The Clansmen started to clamor again, but Kusanagi cut them off with a stern, "Hey. Yata is eighteen. He's more than old enough to make his own decisions. Sure, this is out of character for him, but he would let us know if he needed help."

Totsuka nodded, cutting off the Clan's unhappy murmurings with a bright smile. "Kusanagi-san is right. Let's take it easy. I'm sure Yata will be back as soon as he can. When he returns, we can ask him questions, and he can answer if he wants to. For now, let's just trust him to stay safe."

The Clan looked slightly mollified by Totsuka's reassurance, and a slight, lazy nod from Mikoto sealed the deal.

"Okay," Kamamoto nodded determinedly, "Totsuka-san and Kusanagi-san are right. Besides, Yata-san would kick our butts if he thought we were looking down on him. Let's hit the streets and make sure those Blues are staying out of our territory!"

A boisterous cheer erupted from the HOMRA ranks, and the younger Clansmen filed out the door until only Kusanagi, Totsuka, Anna, and Mikoto remained.

Kusanagi finally allowed himself a smoke break as Totsuka pulled out his latest hobby – that silly video camera – and proceeded to coo with Anna over whatever he had already captured on film.

Nodding to his King, Kusanagi stepped outside and lit up. He leaned against the brick wall of his beloved bar and contemplated the blue of the sky. His eyes trailed the whorls of cigarette smoke up and up until they disappeared into the atmosphere, and Kusanagi allowed himself a small sigh of contentment.

When he finally snuffed out his cigarette and flicked the butt into the trash, Kusanagi returned to the bar just as his first patron of the day arrived. The blond man smiled as he took his customer's order, and refused to acknowledge the fact there was still a nagging uneasiness in the back of his mind.

_This isn't like you_,_ Yata_, he thought. _What's going on?_

_**-day two-**_

Kusanagi was still anxious when forty-eight hours passed without a word from the Red Clan's Vanguard. He tried to distract himself by focusing on scrubbing every bit of dirt from a particularly stubborn champagne flute, but his persistence at trying to ignore the elephant in the room was proving unsuccessful.

He was absurdly grateful when the bell chimed to announce the entrance of a new customer. His grin faltered as he looked up, however, and met a pair of beautiful pale blue eyes.

"Seri-chan," he greeted, taking in the Blue Clan's right-hand woman, dressed in her usual crisp, immaculate uniform. "I take it this isn't a social visit. Would you like a drink anyway?"

Awashima Seri shook her head, her eyes apologetic, "I can't, Kusanagi-san. I'm on duty."

The blond bartender sighed and leaned forward on his elbows, giving his counterpart a charming smile, "That's too bad. What can I help you with, Seri-chan?"

"I need to speak with Yatagarasu in order to get his official statement for the Mole incident," she replied, and Kusanagi's smile vanished.

"Ah," he said, careful to keep his voice neutral. "Unfortunately, that won't be possible. Yata's out of town right now, you see."

"He is?" Awashima asked, startled. "Do you know when he'll be back?"

Kusanagi's lips thinned and the truth was bitter on his tongue, "No. Sorry, Seri-chan. I'll let him know you'd like to speak with him when he returns."

"Thank you," she said, still blinking in slight shock. Then she shook her head and gave him a small smile.

"I have to get back to work," she said, "But I'll try to come by for a drink later tonight."

"You're always welcome here, Seri-chan," Kusanagi returned her smile, and waved as she exited HOMRA headquarters in a swirl of blue uniform.

The yawning pit of unease in his gut continued to fester and grow.

_**-day three-**_

The next day, the Clan gathered at the bar for an impromptu meeting. Although most members maintained the excuse they were there only because they had nothing better to do, it was quietly acknowledged the real reason the Red Clan had seen fit to gather and mope at their headquarters was because they longed for a sense of solidarity. (And no one wanted to give vocal validation of the unspoken consensus that Yata's absence was sorely missed.)

Even when the Clansmen's collective sadness drove the patrons from his bar for the day, Kusanagi didn't have the heart to banish them to the outdoors. The blond man gritted his teeth as he wiped down the bar, frustrated he didn't know what to say, what to do. Clan morale was Totsuka's department.

Yata had also been unofficially in charge of morale – he offered the foil to Totsuka's gentle prodding; his naturally loud brashness was perfect for getting Clansmen psyched up, for boosting their confidence before and during battle.

The slightly glum silence was suddenly disturbed by Mikoto bolting upright from his sprawled position on the couch.

The unexpected movement drew the gathered Clansmen's eyes like moths to a flame, and all noise cut out abruptly.

The Red King didn't appear to notice their intense stares, his molten eyes focused on something far away in the distance, on something Kusanagi suspected only he could see.

"King?" Totsuka asked. "What is it?"

Mikoto continued to stare into the distance, face unreadable as he murmured: "Yata just activated his Aura."

Totsuka frowned and the gathered Clansmen tensed, "Is he in danger?"

The Red King took a while to respond, but after a few minutes he swung his legs off the side of the couch, bracing his elbows on his knees.

"I don't know," Mikoto admitted. He remained contemplative for a moment, and the Clan caught a glimpse of the powerful creature coiling under his skin, before he leaned back and threw his arms over the back of the couch.

When he spoke again, the Red King's voice was calm and smooth as water-worn stone, "But, Yata can take care of himself."

This was the mantra the Red Clansmen chanted to themselves for the next seven days, tempers fraying with each passing hour there was no word from Yata. The Clansmen picked fights all over the city and were unusually vicious when taking down punks. Totsuka did his best to calm them, but the strange silence from their Vanguard made his words fall on deaf ears.

HOMRA raised hell for a week, and then the Blue King came calling.

_**-day ten-**_

The sky was heavy with storm clouds when the Blue King darkened HOMRA's doorway, raindrops splattering on the windowpanes. The tall, slender man smiled serenely as he stepped over the threshold and patiently dried his glasses, his uniform slightly damp but otherwise perfect, not a hair out of place.

Awashima was at his shoulder, and she flashed Kusanagi a quick look of concern before straightening her shoulders and marching after her King, who had made his way unerringly through the dim bar to where Mikoto was reclining on the couch.

As always, the atmosphere grew heavy with the two Kings in the same room. Kusanagi felt as though the storm clouds outside had invited themselves in, the lightning flickering in their depths transforming into tension that crackled through the air when golden eyes met violet.

"Suoh Mikoto," Munakata Reisi said cordially.

"Munakata," Mikoto responded with tiny nod of acknowledgement, more of his chin dropping a few centimeters to his chest than anything, but the Blue King didn't seem to mind, and went straight to business.

"You have been tense for more than a week now, Suoh," Munakata scolded quietly. "Your Aura is starting to spill over, which is very unlike you. What's going on?"

"Never you mind, Munakata," the Red King responded, a lazy smirk stretching across his lips.

The Blue King sighed, "Believe me, I would much rather be doing other things right now. Unlike you, I have mountains of paperwork to wrangle. However," Munakata's violet eyes flashed, "your Weissman level is rising, and neutralizing the danger you pose to civilians takes precedence. So I'll ask again, Suoh: What is going on?"

Mikoto's golden gaze sharpened as he drawled, "What if I told you it wasn't the Blue Clan's business, Munakata?"

"If you were to say that, then I'd inform you that as leader of Scepter 4, the safety of every person in Shizume City is my business," Munakata retorted, and all eavesdropping members of HOMRA frowned at his tone. "You threaten their safety with your rising Weissman levels, and I need to know why. Let me do my job."

"Fair enough," Mikoto conceded.

"My Vanguard has been out of town for several days," the Red King said, "and for the past week, his Aura has been feeling strangely muffled. I can't pinpoint where he is. Even Anna has tried, but her marbles just keep spinning on their axes."

"I did not think Yata Misaki was the type to be out of the Red Clan's territory for so long," Munakata remarked, eyebrows raised in surprise. "This is indeed cause for concern. Have you tried to contact him?"

"Of course," Totsuka interjected. "We've tried calling him every day, but he won't answer – both his phone and watch go straight to voicemail."

"I see," the Blue King looked thoughtful. "Suoh, my professional opinion is that you should give Yata-kun two more days to respond. If he does not make contact by then, I urge you to reach out to other resources."

The Red Clan burst into an instant uproar at his suggestion, with the general consensus being, "We don't need advice from no stinkin' Blues!"

The Red King ignored his Clan's blustering, and the two Kings remained oases of quiet in the tumult, seeming to have a silent conversation with their eyes alone.

Finally Mikoto rumbled, "Enough," and HOMRA grudgingly settled down. The crimson-haired man regarded his counterpart stoically from his place on the sofa, and the Blue King looked back without blinking.

"We'll give Yata forty-eight hours," Mikoto said. "Then we'll get serious."

"Very well," Munakata nodded, turning on his heel to leave. "Work on containing your Aura, Suoh. Keep me posted. And if there's anything I can do—"

The Blue King was cut off as most of the Red Clansmen started talking again, insisting it was HOMRA business. Munakata remained unfazed by the interruption, and continued to the door. He stopped on the threshold and glanced back at the Red King.

"Until next time, Suoh," he bid, and Mikoto inclined his head.

The atmosphere in the bar lightened considerably without the pressure of _two_ Swords of Damocles hovering overhead, and Kusanagi and Totsuka managed to bring the crowd of rowdy Clansmen to a dull roar in short order.

"Two days?" the blonde bartender murmured to Totsuka later that evening as he put chairs up on tables.

"Two days," the brunet repeated, brown eyes dark with concern.

Kusanagi heaved a sigh, and stared out at the rain.

_**-day twelve-**_

It had been nearly a fortnight since their Vanguard vanished with barely a word, and the Red Clan was ready to tear apart the city – scratch that, the _country_ – to find him.

They flooded Kusanagi's bar, inundating the space with a cacophony of noise, and allowed light to glint off of too many blades and bats for his patrons' comfort. Within the span of five minutes his customers tossed back their drinks and scurried out the door, taking care to edge around the areas where the Red Clansmen had taken up their raucous vigil.

The blond bartender swore he could feel an ulcer developing from his worry over Yata, and seeing as this was the _third_ time in the past week that his customers had been scared away, it didn't take much for his temper to flare.

"_Quiet_!" Kusanagi boomed, and was slightly gratified when the younger Clansmen shut their mouths immediately, expressions suitably cowed.

"Look," he sighed, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "I know we're all worried about Yata, but I think it's time we tried something different to find him."

"What do you suggest, Kusanagi-san?" Chitose asked.

"You're not going to like it," Kusanagi muttered to himself, before raising his voice so his words carried clearly through the room. "I think we need to call in a favor with the Blue Clan. Wait," he gave his indignant fellow Clansmen a stern look through his sunglasses, "hear me out. It's a fact we don't have the same technological resources as they do. The truth is they have a better chance of finding Yata than we do.

"We've waited long enough for Yata to contact us on his own," the blond man continued, "I think at this point we can all agree something is wrong. Therefore, I think it's best we don't waste any time. The bottom line is we need to find our Vanguard as fast as possible, and the Blue Clan has the best chance of doing that."

His words took the wind out of the HOMRA members' sails, and it sent a pang through his heart to see them look so defeated.

"Alright," Kamamoto muttered after a while. He made eye contact with each Clansman, the de-facto fourth-in-command in Yata's absence. The rotund man looked as though the words pained him to say, but he managed to grind out, "Let's go see the Blue Clan, then. For Yata."

"For Yata," HOMRA repeated, expressions glowing with fierce determination.

"Oh dear," Totsuka said faintly, quiet enough that only Kusanagi could hear him. The bartender looked at the brunet in askance, and Totsuka grimaced, "Fushimi-kun may not react well."

Kusanagi felt as though the air had been sucked out of his lungs. In all the commotion and gut-clenching worry of the past two weeks, he had completely forgotten about their wayward Clansman and his turbulent connection to their Vanguard.

_Shit_, Kusanagi thought, before grabbing his coat and following the entirety of the Red Clan out the door, heading toward Scepter 4 headquarters.

**V . O . A .**

Fushimi Saruhiko reacted to the news about as well as could be expected. His face drained of all blood and his eyes went hard and cold behind the glinting frames of his glasses.

_Shark eyes,_ Kusanagi thought absently. He had rarely seen this expression on Fushimi's face – in fact he could count the number of incidents on one hand, and without fail all of them had to do with a certain boisterous Vanguard.

"What," Fushimi drawled in a voice void of all inflection, "did you say?"

Kusanagi grimaced, but Totsuka was the one who was brave enough to break the news once again, "We haven't heard from Yata-kun in a few days, Fushimi-kun, which is why we have come to request assistance from the Blue Clan."

"You haven't heard from Misaki in nearly _two weeks_, and are only now asking for assistance?" The blue-haired young man ground out, knuckles white around the hilt of his sword.

"We wanted to be sure Yata needed our help. We didn't want to embarrass him by calling in the cavalry when it wasn't necessary," Totsuka said. "Please, Fushimi-kun."

Their former Clansman fixed them all with a furious, frigid stare for several more moments, his eyes lingering on Mikoto and Totsuka, before he released the hilt of his sword and slouched into a deceptively relaxed posture.

"Fine," Fushimi said. "Come with me. I'll take you to see the Captain."

_**-day thirteen-**_

A task force was set up and the Blue Clan immediately funneled all their considerable technological resources into investigating Yata's disappearance. Within twenty-four hours, to the intense relief of HOMRA, the Blue Clan had Yata's trail.

They used surveillance cameras from stoplights and ATMs to track him from the area where the Mole incident had taken place to his apartment (and to Totsuka's horror their young Vanguard appeared to be _limping_). Despite the lackluster quality of the grainy footage, it was easy to see Yata looked exhausted as he dragged himself inside his apartment building.

Considering his apparent level of fatigue, everyone looking on in the cramped Scepter 4 headquarters (it had not been built to contain two Clans at the same time) expected Yata to remain inside at least until dawn. The restless Clansmen frowned when Fuse fast-forwarded the surveillance tape, and Yata was seen exiting his apartment not two hours later, a bag slung over his shoulder.

"Where is Yata-san going?" Kamamoto mumbled as Yata hailed a cab and took off. "He _never_ takes a taxi. He always uses his skateboard."

"That's what's troubling," Blue Clansman Himori Akiyama murmured, switching to a different camera feed. The two Clans watched in silence as Yata's taxi weaved its way through Shizume City traffic until it stopped at a bus station and Yata stepped out, tossing the driver a wad of yen. "According to the bus station's ticket records, Yata Misaki booked a ticket to Tokyo International Airport. Airport records indicate he proceeded to buy a one-way ticket to Washington D.C. This happened thirteen days ago, and it is the farthest we have been able to trace him."

"_America_?" Chitose blurted out, incredulous. "What the hell would our Vanguard be doing there?"

The two Clans devolved into a dozen side conversations, each speculating about what reason Yata Misaki could have possibly had for going to America.

Fushimi, who had been lurking in the shadows toward the back of the room, went absolutely still with a suddenness that had Totsuka zeroing in on him in concern. The young man may have been a turncoat, but he was still HOMRA as far as Totsuka was concerned, and the brunet worried about him the same as any other member of the Red Clan.

Something cold dropped into Totsuka's stomach when he realized Fushimi had gone pale as a sheet, the glow of the various screens around the room leeching the color from his skin until only white remained.

"Fushimi-kun," the rare sternness from HOMRA's third-in-command snagged everyone's attention, and the young man in question flinched, "What's wrong?"

For a long moment Fushimi didn't reply, simply stared at Totsuka with an expression of mounting horror growing in his eyes, threatening to shatter his mask of aloofness. Totsuka reached out, alarmed by the _fear_ and _hollowness_ he glimpsed Fushimi trying desperately to hide—

The blue-haired young man jerked into motion and stepped forward to a computer terminal before Totsuka could make contact, but the brunet didn't allow Fushimi's avoidance to deter him, and crowded close as the Blue Clansman started to type furiously. In moments, Fushimi brought up news footage of a terrible storm system that had torn across the continental United States a week previous.

The news clip was in English, and Totsuka's brow furrowed in confusion. He only caught about every third word of whatever the news anchors were saying, but most of his attention was on Fushimi, who was staring at the storm clouds with such intensity Totsuka was almost surprised the computer screen didn't catch fire.

Then, from her position tucked against Mikoto on one of the few chairs available in the room, little Anna gasped. Her wide red eyes also appeared to be fixated on the swirling clouds, and she looked absolutely terrified.

Both Clans shifted anxiously, disturbed by their Clan members' odd reactions.

The blue-haired young man ignored the muttering that swelled to a low buzz throughout the room and continued glaring at the storm clouds.

"That _idiot_," he growled, and Totsuka realized with a jolt of surprise that he had never seen Fushimi quite so angry. His was a cold fury, but the brunet had never witnessed this level of intensity, not even in those final heart-wrenching days before Fushimi had mutilated himself and turned his back on HOMRA.

"What's going on?" Awashima demanded. "Fushimi, report!"

Predictably, Fushimi ignored his superior's demands and limped to his locker, where he proceeded to rummage around. After a minute of rifling through his belongings, Fushimi pulled out a large, oddly-shaped coin that glinted gold in the blue glow cast by the computer screens.

Satisfied, Fushimi Saruhiko turned to consider the room at large. His blue eyes lingered for a moment on the albino child shivering against her King, and, in an uncharacteristic display of compassion, he said, "Don't worry, Anna. I'll explain later."

Disregarding both Clans' stunned looks at the fact _he had tried to comfort Kushina Anna_, Fushimi announced, "I need to create a rainbow."

He made the absurd declaration with a completely straight face, and it was the tension building in his shoulders more than anything that snapped Totsuka out of his shocked stupor.

"Alright, Fushimi-kun," the third-in-command of HOMRA said, and moved to help.

**V . O . A .**

It didn't take long for the gathered Clansmen to spill out into an adjoining courtyard of the Scepter 4 headquarters, where Himori had remembered there was a functioning fountain.

Bemused, the Red and Blue Clansmen took up vigil on opposite sides of the courtyard, staring as Fushimi and Totsuka stepped up to the innocuously bubbling fountain.

"I need you to heat the water," Fushimi told his once fellow-Clansman, "We need to create a rainbow out of mist."

Totsuka nodded and activated his Aura: an instant later, magenta butterflies were swirling through the air, fluttering delicately to the fountain and brushing up against the streams of water, sending up billows of steam that faded into mist.

Once the brunet man had generated a relatively stable supply of mist, Fushimi raised his voice and intoned, "O Iris, Goddess of the Rainbow, accept my offering."

As soon as he finished speaking, Fushimi hefted the strange coin he was holding and threw it into the mist.

Certain that the blue-haired young man had finally lost his mind, the Clansmen listened attentively for the sound of the coin hitting the cobblestone on the other side of the fountain, but the expected clatter never came.

Somehow, they realized, _impossibly_, the gold coin had disappeared into thin air.

The Clansmen didn't have long to ponder this mystery, however, as an instant later the mist Totsuka had created gained a sentience of its own, wafting up and condensing into a vaguely humanoid shape that transformed into the visage of a beautiful woman with dark hair, olive skin, and warm brown eyes.

(At opposite ends of the courtyard, Suoh Mikoto and Munakata Reisi narrowed their eyes simultaneously.)

"I don't usually heed mortals," the beautiful woman said in a voice that echoed strangely, as though she were speaking from the other side of a canyon, her words reverberating off its nonexistent stone walls. "But your Sight is unclouded, Fushimi Saruhiko, and you are under my protection, so I will allow this. Who do you wish to contact?"

"Yata Misaki," Fushimi replied, appearing completely unfazed by the woman's inexplicable appearance. (_Was she a Strain of some kind?_ the Clansmen wondered. _How does she know Fushimi?_)

The dark-haired woman frowned apologetically, "I'm sorry, but I can't fulfill your request. Yata Misaki is currently unavailable."

Fushimi's fists clenched, "What do you mean?"

"He's alive and well," the woman assured him. "But with the Second Titan War the wards at Camp Half-Blood have been strengthened, and I cannot reach him there."

The woman's image started to fade.

"Wait!" Fushimi shouted, desperate, but despite his pleas, the mist returned to normal water in a matter of seconds. There was a moment of silence as the onlookers all stared at the newly-formed puddle beside the fountain, and then both the Red and Blue Clansmen recovered enough from their shock to explode into questions. Their respective Kings simply watched quietly as their subordinates talked over each other, demanding to know what was going on.

"It's Misaki's story to tell," the third-in-command of Scepter 4 snapped, surly. The young man remained facing the fountain, his expression hidden from all but Totsuka, who could practically _see_ Fushimi clam up as his stared listlessly at the puddle, whose only purpose now was to reflect the robin's egg blue of the sky.

_What aren't you telling us, Fushimi-kun?_ Totsuka wondered._ Why do you look as though Yata will never return?_ The brunet reached out, determined but unsure as to what he could do or say that would banish that heart-wrenching expression of carefully concealed distress from Fushimi's face—

He was stopped by a flash of light as bright as the sun erupting right in front of Fushimi, and Totsuka cried out as he was blinded.

Scrubbing at his eyes, the two Clans' startled oaths resonated in Totsuka's ears as he blinked black spots away from his vision. When he could see clearly again, the brunet gasped in surprise and stumbled back.

Standing in front of Fushimi was yet another gorgeous woman, although this one was much more corporeal than the last: her shadow stretched out on the cobblestone, and Totsuka had no doubt she had somehow teleported herself into the heart of Scepter 4. Despite his alarm, Totsuka couldn't help but stare in awe at the woman, who stood tall and had to be the most beautiful he'd ever seen. One moment she seemed to have long dark hair and Hispanic features; and in the next blonde hair and blue eyes.

Regardless of what she looked like, there was something irresistibly mesmerizing about her: she exuded a kind of energy Totsuka couldn't help but be drawn to.

He was startled out of his daze by Fushimi snarling and reaching for his sword. The young man's hiss was enough to rouse the rest of the Clansmen, and they followed his lead, standing alert and ready for battle.

Her visage settling on a strangely attractive mix between Japanese and Caucasian features, the woman looked unconcerned as the Clans simultaneously moved to surround her, taking up defensive positions around the courtyard.

"So this is the kind of welcome I can expect from my nephew's second family? Why am I not surprised – your brutishness suits him," she waved her hand flippantly and tossed her hair, "Don't bother with the charade. I could destroy you all in an instant."

When she spoke, the woman's voice sounded like tinkling bells, and despite her snide comments, Totsuka found himself relaxing against his will.

_I don't like her_, Totsuka decided, disturbed by the fog that threatened to cloud his mind whenever he looked at the mysterious woman. And, as though she was aware of his thoughts, the woman's eyes darted to him and she gave him a wide smile, her perfect teeth flashing in the sunlight.

_You will_, her smile seemed to promise. _Whether you want to or not._

Fushimi brandished his sword, glaring as though he wasn't effected at all by the woman's charms, "What _are_ you?"

At Fushimi's query, most of the Clansmen's first thought was that the gorgeous woman _must_ be a Strain, because how else could she be able to change her appearance in the blink of an eye? The beautiful woman tilted her head, a gleeful look in her eye, and replied silkily, "Well, I'm something like Yata Misaki's aunt – or stepmother, depending on how you look at it."

The third-in-command of Scepter 4 narrowed his eyes as the rest of the Clansmen spluttered in shock.

_Yata-kun has never mentioned his mother_, Totsuka realized with something like horror curdling in his stomach. _In all the years we've known him, I've never heard him talk about his past at all._

The brunet man struggled to swallow around the sudden lump in his throat because the realization stung: _It seems there's much about our Vanguard that we don't know._

There were a few moments of quiet muttering, before Munakata Reisi surprised them all by stepping forward and bowing elegantly.

"Lady Aphrodite," the Blue King intoned, his face unreadable, "to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?"

"You're a shrewd one, aren't you, Munakata Reisi," 'Aphrodite' purred, her hair turning crimson. "I like that in a man."

"Stop stalling," the Red King growled from his position at the opposite end of the courtyard. Although his body language was relaxed, his eyes flashed and betrayed the fact he was done playing games.

Aphrodite looked unconcerned, "So violent, Suoh Mikoto. You remind me of my lover."

She ran an assessing, appreciative gaze over the Red King, before smiling like a cat who had caught a canary, "No wonder Yata looks up to you like a father."

Thoroughly rankled by the woman's condescension, both Clans leaned forward, waiting for a sign from their sovereigns to attack. Aphrodite and Suoh Mikoto stared at each other, before the beautiful woman laughed and said coyly, "I hear you're looking for your Vanguard."

The muscles in the Red King's forearms tightened ever so slightly as he clenched his fists inside his pockets, his golden eyes narrowed suspiciously, "Where is he?"

"Now that would be telling," she chided, looking pleased. "But I can take you to him. Well, actually," her eyes slid to where the third-in-command for the Blue Clan was glaring daggers at her, "it's an invitation for one. What do you say, Saruhiko?"

"I'll go," the young man responded immediately, sheathing his sword. From across the courtyard, the two Kings shared an unreadable glance, before Munakata sighed.

"Very well," the Blue King said. "Fushimi, your mission is to retrieve the Red Clan's Vanguard and return as quickly as possible. Do you accept?"

"Yes," Fushimi replied. Aphrodite's brilliant smile turned sly as she moved to stand toe to toe with the blue-haired young man.

"Have fun," Aphrodite simpered. The beautiful woman reached out and placed her perfectly-manicured hand over Fushimi's heart.

The instant she touched him, Fushimi Saruhiko vanished in a flash of light.

Alarmed and enraged, the Clansmen decided they were done with being jerked around by this so-called 'Lady Aphrodite' and charged forward, raising their fists and swords and summoning their Auras.

The moment they stepped forward, however, Aphrodite rolled her eyes and waved a hand; a wave of pure energy erupted from her, and all but the two Kings were knocked off their feet from the force of the attack.

"Calm down," Aphrodite scoffed. "Saruhiko will be fine. Probably."

Smirking down at the winded Clansmen, Aphrodite tossed her hair and said, "Well, it's been fun, but I really must be going now. There's a certain forbidden romance that requires my attention – the more drama the better, you know. That's my motto."

She winked at the Red and Blue Kings, and blew them all a kiss.

"Close your eyes," she said, "If you don't want to go blind."

"Listen to her!" Munakata shouted, and everyone instinctively flinched back as the sun itself seemed to flicker before them, searing light burning through their eyelids.

It was over in an instant; when the assembled Clansmen opened their eyes all that remained in the center of the courtyard was a thoroughly confused Totsuka Tatara, and an innocuously bubbling fountain.

Fuse cleared his throat and turned to his King, "Respectfully, sir, what was that all about?"

Munakata sighed and closed his eyes.

"Sometimes it is best not to know, Fuse-kun," he murmured tiredly. He opened his eyes again and adjusted his glasses, returning to his usual unruffled state, "Back to work, everyone. Fushimi-kun will return in due time."

The Blue Clansmen appeared unconvinced, and traded unhappy looks, but nonetheless sheathed their swords and trudged back inside Scepter 4 headquarters.

Mikoto glanced at Kusanagi, who nodded and herded the Red Clan out the door. When only the two Kings remained on the cobblestone, Mikoto turned to look back at Munakata.

The Blue King said, "I don't like the threat of the West's war coming to Shizume City. Stay in touch, Suoh, for all our sakes."

Mikoto gave a languid nod, "Same to you, Munakata."

The Kings considered each other for a moment more, before going their separate ways.

Even as the two Clans reluctantly returned to their normal routines, they shared an unspoken vow: _Wherever you are, Yata-kun, Fushimi-kun, you'd better come back safe. Otherwise we're coming for you. And _nothing_ will get in our way._

**Well? How was it? I personally found this chapter really hard to write, so I apologize if the characterization was off. ^.^ It's so nice to be writing again, though, so I'll accept stubborn characters.**

**Next time: Camp Half-Blood is recovering from the Second Titan War, and the demigods might finally unravel some of the mystery surrounding the Vanguard of Ares. **

**Please leave a note on your way out, even if it's only to answer this question: What's your favorite sport? I personally love basketball. Whenever I even hear the sound of the ball hitting the court or the swish of the net, I want to start playing.**

**See you next time!**

**~_Home By Another Way_**


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